“Same here,” put in Tom, “and who in thunder is that human string-bean you have for a captain? Gawkiest appearing chap I ever saw.” “Name’s Abe Lincoln,” Perkins replied. “An’ he may be long an’ lean an’ gawky; but don’t let that fool yuh. Weighs over a hundred an’ eighty pound, an’ is hard ez nails. He’s the champeen wrestler o’ southern Illinois. Even throwed Jack Armstrong o’ Clary’s Grove.” “By George, I’ve heard o’ Abe Lincoln,” stated Bill Brown. “Folks ’round the country say he’s strong as an ox.” “Works in Offut’s grocery store,” continued Pete, “down in New Salem, best durned leetle town in Sangamon County. Abe’s quittin’ the store right soon, though. Aims ter run fer the state legislaitcher.” “Well,” went on Tom, “I hope he turns out to be a better law-maker than he is drillmaster. What he doesn’t know about military tactics would fill a very large book.” “Don’t worry ’bout Abe,” advised Perkins. “He’s got the stuff. The Salem boys ’lected him Cap’n; an’ take it from ol’ Pete, them home boys knows a real man when they sees one. Ther was tew candidates, Jack Kirkpatrick, the sawmill owner, an’ lean, lanky, homely Abe. When it come time ter take the vote, har’s how we done it. Jack an’ Abe stood facin’ the comp’ny; an’ each sojur walked out an’ stood behint the man he wanted fer Cap’n. Why shucks, Abe’s line wuz twice ez long ez Jack Kirkpatrick’s.” “Hm!” observed Tom, “he must be quite a fellow, at that.” “As the sayin’ goes,” put in Bill, “you never can tell from the looks of a toad how far he kin jump.” “Abe had a thunderin’ hard time ter begin with,” chuckled Pete reminiscently. “The fust time he give an order ez Cap’n, a feller answered, “Go hop in the river!”” “Must be some hard eggs in your outfit,” interposed Ben. “It takes backbone to handle men like that.” “Wall, some o’ the boys wuz a mite obstrep’rous. But Abe didn’t let ’em skeer him. He stuck tew it; although, ez yer say, he didn’t know no more ’bout drillin’ than a monkey duz ’bout playin’ the fiddle. One day he wuz drillin’ tew platoons an’ we come ter a narrer gate. Abe wuz in a pickle. He didn’t know the order that would get ’em inter a column, tew by tew, fer passin’ through the gate. So what did he do--this’ll make yuh split--but give a command, ‘Comp’ny fall out fer tew minnits; then fall in ag’in tother side o’ gate!’” “I hear yer company has a pig fer a mascot, Pete,” announced Bill Brown, with a wide grin. “I’ve heard tell o’ most every kind of a mascot, but that takes the prize.” “Well, siree,” said Perkins, sharing in the general laughter, “a young white sow j’ined our outfit ’bout the time we crossed the Sangamon County line; an’ she’s bin with us ever since. An’ say, she’s jest the smartest critter in the hull pig tribe. Marched with us, swum the cricks, waded the swamps, an’ foraged fer food. An’ what do yer reckon we do, ter keep her from bein’ stole?” “Couldn’t guess,” said Ben.